


I Trust You

by GiantEyedCrow



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Scenario, Canon Divergence, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Clint barton is a good friend, Gen, Hurt Steve Rogers, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Natasha Romanoff, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:01:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23314333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GiantEyedCrow/pseuds/GiantEyedCrow
Summary: This time around, it’s left to Natasha to save Steve from Zola’s trap in The Winter Soldier. Team bonding ensues.
Relationships: Natasha Romanoff & Clint Barton, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanoff
Comments: 1
Kudos: 21





	I Trust You

**Author's Note:**

> CW:  
> \- Mild gore  
> \- Burning Building scenario

“We are, both of us, out of time.”

A blast rips through the room, and the air gets so hot I can’t breathe. Before I can process what was happening, Steve yanks me from where I was standing and throws the steel cover of a hole in the ground across the room. With his arm tucked around me and the shield positioned over our heads, we crouch as fire consumes the building and the roof comes down on where we’re kneeling.

I cover my nose to avoid inhaling dust and smoke and what’s probably asbestos. Steve’s arm starts to lower once the debris has finally stopped falling.

“Steve?” He falls backwards into the heap of concrete and his muscles start to relax, eyes starting to roll towards the back of his head. There's a pronounced gash in the side of his head, dangerously close to his temple. Dark blood is running down the side of his face.

Helicopters are circling. Shit.

“Steve, come on, we need to leave. Now.” I slide my hand towards his back and pull him into a sitting position. “Now would be a great time to run.”

“They’re close,” his voice comes out more like a grumble as he pushes himself up off of the ground.

“They’re not catching us.”

“We’re surrounded.” Steve spits and starts stretching his jaw. His knuckles are red and sliced up with the day's work, but he clenches and unclenches his fists, opening the cuts up more when they were sure to be healed soon. 

I pull my gauntlets from my pockets, and they immediately start glowing blue with charge. “We’re not gonna be able to beat all of them.” I decide, pulling him back down to the ground. I listen to the sound of ladders falling and Strike agents feet tracking through the rubble of the mess they’ve made. “Play dead.”

“What?”

“Did I switch languages? Play dead,” I command. I shove him a little and he follows directions, falling down to his back and going limp. 

As flashlights come over us, tears sting at my eyes and I place my head towards his chest, pretending to listen to his heartbeat. “When I give the signal, move.” I start pressing down in his chest, assuring that the shield is still on his arm. Scant advantages when we’re on lower ground, but of all places, I’m not dying here. 

“We’ve located The Black Widow. Captain Rogers is down, I repeat, Captain Rogers is down.”

I look up and find Rumlow staring at me. A flashlight is shining in my eyes, but that doesn’t really matter— the old shield headquarters is on fire so that you can see everything like it’s bright as day outside. Databanks, books, photos— it’s all in the air now. I can’t tell if it’s for better or for worse. We might’ve been able to uproot hydra with old case files, but it’s all gone now. 

I spit at Rumlow and the Strike agents and go back to pretending to revive Steve.

“Poor girl you are,” Rumlow jumps down into the pit we’re sitting in. For a Shield and Hydra agent, he’s dumb as hell. “He’s dead. Come on.” He pulls me away from Steve, and I put up a weak fight. 

“He’s... he’s still alive, I just need to—”I fall to my knees again and start pressing down on his chest. I pretend to choke on a sob and eventually press my ear against his chest again. 

I hear guns lower. Men moving closer.

“Rogers is dead, Natasha.” Rumlow’s hand closes around my wrist, secure around the gauntlet. Stupid, stupid man.

I give him a couple volts of electricity and drive my foot into his stomach before tumbling atop him, holding him secure with my knee and knocking his lights out. The guns are raised again, and I retreat to my place with Steve. “Now!”

His reflexes might be better than mine.

He raises the shield and kneels beside me. Bullets bounce off of it and land at our feet, and I count how many rounds it will take them before they have to reload.

I finally hear the sound of empty barrels and clicking triggers. 

Running forward and rebounding off of one of the walls, I come charging out of the narrow pit and land a punch on the unfortunate soul that’s too slow to react to me lunging at him. Electricity rips through his body, and I hit him in the nose with my elbow before wrestling away one of the hand guns at his side. 

Steve follows my lead and attacks. Even if he is a little slower than me this time around, he’s still just a little too fast for the Strike agents. They’ve had one hell of a day with him anyway.

I take two out for him, jumping at another and slamming one of the heavy gauntlets on my wrists into the side of the agents’ head. They crumble. 

When the coast seems clear, Steve and I get moving. 

A bang rings out, and without thinking, I turn and shoot. But the deed is done. Steve automatically doubles over alongside the agent that shot him. Blood stains his white shirt and starts seeping through to his jacket as he holds his side.

Goddammit. 

“Take a deep breath for me,” I coax while taking off my jacket and folding it. Steve’s eyes are blind with pain, and he lets out a grunt when I start adding pressure to the wound. “More are coming, this is going to hurt, we are not going to die.”

I move Steve’s bloodied hand back to the wound and make him cover it. His eyes are squeezed shut, and he lets out a stifled roar of pain when I swing his arm over my shoulder and pull him from the ground. He leans on me heavily for support.

Slowly, we start limping towards the car, and I watch as white light runs over us and shouting gets closer. More gunshots start ringing out, and I pick up the pace. Steve is panting and gasping for air, but I keep moving.

“Just a few more feet.”

As soon as we get to the truck, I throw him inside, climb over him, shut the door, and get into the driver's seat before barreling down the old abandoned backroad and leaving a cloud of dust in our wake.

I wait and don’t let up on the gas. Five minutes and no pursuit.

Letting out a sigh of relief and savoring the feeling, I turn to Steve. He’s probably concussed and has a bullet wound— he won’t last long if we keep moving.

“Hey, can you breathe?” 

His eyes are squeezed shut and I don’t think he can hear me. Great.

I watch for the rise and fall of his chest, passing my eyes frantically between the road we’re barreling down and the dying man in my passenger seat. This idiot jumped from 30 stories, got up, and ran 4 hours ago— one would assume he’d be fine, it’d just hurt like a bitch.

That is, if it didn’t the bullet didn’t hit anything important.

When we’re far out enough from the crime scene, I pull over to the side of the road and position the car in a spot in the dirt, between trees and bushes that makes us less visible. Jamming the brakes and putting the car in park, I turn to Steve. 

“So much for borrowing the damn thing,” I smile at him, taking his head into my hands. He leans into my palm, looking for some kind of comfort and almost smiles. His breathes come out shaky. Steve looks big around everyone— even the Winter Soldier. Dumb and blond and tall, and I already know he’s heavy as hell. But as he sits in the passenger seat, panting and gritting his teeth, he looks small. 

If I don’t come up with something soon he could bleed himself dry or his intestines could be torn up or a bone could heal completely wrong.

Hospitals would get us killed, Tony and Banner are all the way in Manhattan. Maria Hill, nowhere to be seen. Probably hunting down what was left of Fury’s blood relatives.

Steve wheezed. His breath filled into his chest sounding strained, and he choked. “You need to breathe normally for me, okay?” I sat him up in his seat, and he started coughing. Placing my ear against his chest, I heard his heart beating way too fast.

Not good.

Tony wouldn’t be able to get us a Quinjet without question. Thor was off world, Nick wasn’t here to save my ass anymore.

Clint.

I reach over Steve and into the dashboard and pull out a burner phone, keying in Clint’s number from memory.

“Have you seen my red umbrella?”

“No. I can lend you a blue one, though. Nat, do you think I’d ever work for Nazis?”

I breathe a sigh of relief. “Steve’s hit, he only has 3 hours. Can you help me?”

“Holy shit— hurry. Why the fuck did you even ask?”

“I'm on the way.” 

Clint helps me carry Steve inside, pulling his other arm over his shoulder and helping me drag him over to the rug lying at the center of the living room. Clint pushes the couch out of the way for extra space, and runs to get the med kit.  
His breath is still rattling and his heart is still working too hard.

Clint comes back with a red and white box and sets it on the ground while I peel Steve’s blood soaked shirt off of him.

“Any exit points?” Clint asks.

I trace from the wound to where the bullet should have exited and find nothing. 

“Okay, we know what the first step is then,” Clint decided. “He uh, can’t get drunk can he?”

“Nope.”

“No pain killers?”

“Not unless you have enough to kill an elephant.”

“Okay. Okay.” Clint pulls out a scalpel and tweezers and alcohol. “Well... hold his legs down I guess.”

Sweat beads on his forehead, and his breath is still rattling. “Sorry cap.” 

Clint pours alcohol all over the wound, and I clean up the one on the side of his head while trying to keep him from going to sleep. Steve’s jaw tightens and he groans, which is fairly tame, considering how deep of a hole he got put in him— how much further we might open it up to get the bullet out.

“Easy, easy,” I say, pulling my fingers through his hair. “It’ll be over in a second.”

I moved down to his legs and fastened them to the ground. As Clint sanitizes his knife and tweezers, I started observing the rug. It’s nice, woven with soft grays and blues. It won’t be able to be saved by the end of this.

Steve’s legs kick and he strains against my weight. Steve lets out a scream, and if I listen closely enough, I can hear Clint tearing through his flesh. 

Clint takes a second to reference how much more he needs to cut, but it seems like he’s giving Steve a break. He catches his breath, even if his chest is rising and falling way faster than it should.

Under his breath, I hear him saying something: “Captain Steven Grant Rogers, 987654320... Captain Steven Grant Rogers, 987654320... Captain Steven Grant Rogers, 987654320...”

“What? What is he saying?”

“Rank, name, serial number. It’s World War 2 training. He’s out of it, keep going.”

Clint cuts into him one more time and starts getting at him with the tweezers. Steve doesn’t scream, he doesn’t clench his teeth— he just keeps repeating rank, name, and serial number.

Clint finally pulls the bullet out, cleans the wound again, and adds pressure. I sit back and breathe a sigh of relief, and Steve falls silent.

“Can... can you stitch him up?” Clint sounds a little breathless. Rightfully so, his arms and rug are covered in super soldier blood.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll get ice.” Clint walks directly into the wrong room, and I accept that. Steve will pull through just fine now, but good God.

Steve’s asleep. The bleeding’s stopped and he seems to be breathing properly now. So I let him sleep for a while and try to make myself look busy while rifling through the med kit for a needle and thread.

“You okay Nat?” 

Yes I’m okay. I keep a level head. I keep moving, I follow orders down to a T, I maintain the integrity and strength of Shield. I’m not Nat, I’m Agent Romanoff.

“Natasha.”

Then why am I crying? Shield agents don’t cry— Widows don’t— 

“Hey, c’mere.” Clint paces towards me, making his footsteps loud on purpose, and wraps his arms around me. I choke back a loud sob and try to clench my teeth to keep silent. Placing a hand over my mouth, I keep trying to stifle the sound of my crying.

“Nick is dead,” I shake my head. “Rumlow tried to kill me. Steve’s down and, and—”I try to gather my thoughts. “The three of us may be dead tomorrow too. Me. You, Steve… Tony, Maria—”

“Hey.” Clint pulls away and turns to meet my face. “We’re going to pull through. It’s all that can be done at this point. Steve will be fine by tomorrow.”

“The Winter Soldier might find us.”

“And we’ll handle him. But right now, you need to focus on keeping yourself alive. Are you hurt?”

I shake my head. Not a scratch on me, thanks to Steve being a goddamn self-sacrificing idiot.

“I’ll stitch Steve up. Get some rest, and we’ll go from there when the sun’s coming up.” Clint nods towards his room.

Nodding and unable to say a word, I pull my boots off and wander off to bed.

Steve comes to a little while after me. He treats me like a sight he’s used to, waking up with someone staring down at him, probably looking concerned and a little tired.

He doesn’t say anything and takes his hands beneath the blanket Clint tossed over him last night and feels out the bullet wound in his side. Wincing and pulling at the blanket, he looks down at the wound.

Last night, there was a gash in his side from Clint cutting him open and pulling a two and a half inch bullet out of Steve. Thank god for the healing factor of the serum, because even if the wound hasn’t closed completely, it’s already healing over. By the end of this, it looks like Steve and I will be matching.

“Morning Goldilocks.” I just want him to talk. That’s it, he doesn’t have to get up and fight and help me track down the Winter Soldier, he doesn’t have to throw Alexander Pierce off a roof for me, as much as he may want to after I break down what he… did to James, but I’m teasing Steve because I just need him to say something. Reassure me that he can still speak. “How’re you feeling?”

Steve swallows dryly and sighs. “How long was I out?”

“Do you want me to include the bullshit surgery?” I stretch out on the couch, assuring I keep my voice low. Clint probably had a long night. He’s most likely going to tag along while we tried to hunt down Hydra’s bear and destroy their weapons of mass murder. He needs his beauty rest.

When Steve doesn’t say anything, I fill in for his absence of a comment. “About 4 hours, nothing too bad.”

“Any idea where Barnes is?” His voice sounds so scratchy and tired.

“Couple theories. We’ll wrangle him so he can’t cause anymore chaos while we put the helicarriers down.”

Steve nods as best as he can, and stares at the ceiling.

I sigh, and look down at him from my spot on the couch. “How are you Cap? I won’t ask again.”

“I’m… alive.” Steve supplies. I don’t stop staring at him, trying to make my eyes bigger. Look more innocent. He has to be at least a little shaken up after that.

“That was scary.” He looks directly at me, his big blue eyes looking a little more softer than they always have been, since New York. “Really scary. The fact that you didn’t cut your losses and managed to get us both out of that…” Steve trails off and looks at the ceiling, then back at me, and nods. “I trust you.”

I can’t remember the last time someone has.

“You’d do the same for me.” I play it off and reach my hand out to Steve, wiggling my fingers as if offering some semblance of comfort. Without question, he takes my hand. “You’ll probably return the favor someday.”

“I’ll try my best.”

“It’ll be enough.” Dropping my head on the couch and closing my eyes again, I start to drift off. Everything can wait until Clint is up.

“Nat?”

“Rogers.”

“Thank you.”

I smile in my half-sleep. “No problem, blondie.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope this kept you a little busy if you have to social distance!!


End file.
